


hope is (not) a mistake

by ceserabeau



Category: Inception (2010), Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Identity Issues, M/M, Max is and is not Eames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 21:50:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4237845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur rolls his eyes. “Guess I’ll have to give you a name then. You look like a man I used to know. You can be Eames.”<br/>Max pulls a face. Dead man’s name is bad luck. He’d rather be fool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hope is (not) a mistake

Out here there is – nothing. Just desert, endless heat, sand in every direction. Empty, desolate. Being in the waste felt like penance before. Now it just makes his chest ache something fierce.

He’s a few days out of the Citadel. The tattoo’s stopped itching and the brand’s healed. He’s a new man. Ha. Still out here, isn’t he?

The bike they gave him is good, steady; not quite a car or a rig but enough for now. Enough to get him to where he’s going, wherever that might be. He rides it hard, leaves nothing but a cloud of dust in his wake. Even ghosts can’t move that fast.

On the fourth day (Dag’s voice whispering, _and on the fourth day God created smegs and schlangers_ ) he comes up on a wreck. Fresh, barely drowned in sand. It’s been stripped: wheels, doors, insides gone. No bodies in sight. Probably taken by the raiders too. But the raiders themselves are gone, back to whatever holes they crawled out of.

He considers it. Might be something worth salvaging, maybe a hidden compartment somewhere. People are shifty like that. He was. Still is.

He creeps closer. The door are closed, but easy enough to pry open with a hard tug. Nothing inside but sand. Useless. He leans further in, peers into the backseat. Still nothing. Eh, back to the bike then.

One step back though and a hand snaps around his ankle, the only warning before the gun appears. Aimed right at his head, _shit_. He jerks away as it goes off. It echoes, like Furiosa’s did in the dark.

The sand shifts, gun moving for him again. He darts his hand down, grabs a fistful of leather and skin, and drags up. A body rises from the sand, fists already up. He bares his teeth. A fight it is.

He swings but the other is lean, wiry – fast too, twisting from his grip. They get in a few hits to his sides, fists pounding leather, before he catches their hair, pulls their face up, fist rising, falling. Blood slicks along his knuckles, trickles down to his sleeve.

An animal noise echoes. He pauses, staring down. There’s dark hair wrapped around his fingers; darker eyes, like the ghosts haunting him.

His breath catches; he hesitates.

A fist to the gut sends him reeling. A foot to the brace sends him flying. He rises fast; draws, cocks, aims as he turns – but so does the other. They’re a mirror image: guns an inch from faces, fingers on triggers, eyes locked.

Ah, he can see them now. A man, not old, but not young either. The same wrinkles in his forehead and around his eyes they all have out here. Dirty, skinny, but strong; not a half-life like Joe’s boys. Blood drying tacky along his hairline in the print of Max’s fists.

“Guess we’re at an impasse,” the man says. His voice is scratchy like there’s sand in his throat. “How about we lower them? On three?”

Max jerks his head in a nod. Not a chance but what’s a lie to save your life?

“One. Two. Three.”

He makes a move like he will and the man copies, lowers his own. Idiot. Now he can press forward until his barrel lands between the man’s squinty eyes. _Idiot_. Doesn’t scream or beg or cry though, just asks “You gonna kill me?” calm as anything.

Max tilts his head, considers it. Would be easy, would save him all this trouble. But – _no unnecessary killing_ , Capable whispers in his ear.

He lowers the weapon. The man exhales between his teeth.

“I don’t have anything worth stealing,” he says, hand jerking back towards the wreck. “Raiders took it all.” He eyes the bike. “Don’t suppose you want to give me a ride?”

Not a matter of want; it’s a matter of what’s right. Huh. When did he start thinking that way? Max nods.

The man’s giving him a funny look: surprised but disbelieving, a hint of grudging trust. He slides the gun back into the holster at his hip though. “You got a name?” he asks.

Furiosa asked the same thing, voice steady even with his gun to her throat. Seems like so long ago now, days stretching out like weeks. What are they doing now, her and the wives? Are they safe? He isn’t sure he has a right to know.

“ _Hey_ ,” the man snaps. “I said, you got a name?”

So much power in a name. But Max has given it away once already, maybe he can do it again. He opens his mouth, and the words stick in his throat. Hmm, maybe not.

The man rolls his eyes. “Of course, you’re fucking feral. Guess I’ll have to give you a name then.” He tilts his head. “You look like a man I used to know. You can be Eames.”

Max pulls a face. Dead man’s name is bad luck. He’d rather be _fool_.

The man doesn’t notice. “I’m Arthur,” he says, holds out a hand.

He stares at it. _Arthur_. Makes him think of the kings in the books he used to read Sprog. Makes him think of dictators, of Immortan Joe. Not a man to trust – even if he hasn’t shot Max yet.

The hand falls away. “In the morning then?”

Max nods again. Too dangerous to drive at night where the headlights give him away. Could end up like the Bullet Farmer, blind and burnt up in the dark.

Arthur’s mouth twitches. “Good,” he says. “That’s – that’s good.”

He sounds – hopeful. Fool. Hope is a mistake; no place for it out here.

He should tell him. But the words die fast. Arthur’s smiling at him and it’s the sweetest thing he’s seen in a long time.

-

Cold creeps over the dunes as the sun slides past the horizon. He sets up for the night: tarp spread over the bike, corners driven into the sand with knives, blankets laid out in the space beneath. Much better than sand; can build a cocoon and bury in deep.

Arthur watches him, sat on the slope of sand up against the wreck. “Room for me in there?”

Max doesn’t snarl but it’s a close thing. Can’t let Arthur can get close enough to touch – touching means violence, means pain. He knew before but it’s hardwired in now.

Arthur just holds up his hands in surrender. “I was joking.”

Nothing funny about it. He’s had enough of other people’s hands on him to last a lifetime.

Behind them, the sun dips, disappears. From beneath the rocks, lizards come crawling. They’re fast but he’s faster; he catches two barehanded before Arthur looks at him sidelong. He pauses, one halfway to his mouth. Probably doesn’t look good, more animal than human.

“I can start a fire,” Arthur says pointedly.

“No fires,” someone says. Oh, that’s his voice, it’s him.  

It makes Arthur laugh. “So you can speak.”

Shit. Nice one, fool. He stares blankly back.

“There’s no one out here to see them,” Arthur tells him. “Might as well keep warm.”

“No fires.”

Arthur shakes his head. “You’ll poison yourself,” he says, “Eating them like that.”

Max huffs, tears another bite. Hasn’t yet. When he looks back, Arthur’s still watching. His eyes are ravenous.

“You eating?”

Arthur spreads his hands wide. “Don’t have anything. The raiders took it all.”

Useless. Max shuffles over to the bike, digs out a can from the bags. Soup, nothing special. But Arthur takes it like it’s sacred. He watches him eat it, the way he chugs it like water. Must be starved. Who knows how long he’s been out here in the waste.

They sit for a while. Until the cold is too much and Max goes to his tent, crawls into the pile of blankets. “Y’should sleep,” he calls back.

Arthur nods – but he doesn’t move. “Good night,” he says quietly.

Max jerks, stills. Last person who said that to him is dead, run down on the Fury Road. He makes a sound, half a word. Buries in it fabric.

There’s a shuffling behind him, sand shifting and sliding. Did Arthur hear? He glances back.

In the half light, Arthur’s still sitting there, back to the metal, staring blankly across the sand. His eyes are as deep and empty as the desert.

“Go to sleep, Eames.”

Max grunts at him. Lets his eyes fall closed.

-

He wakes sharply, hands reaching out for – something. But there’s nothing there, never is. Damn ghosts.

In the dark, Arthur sleeps, curled in the hollow beneath the wreck. Peaceful, like Max wouldn’t slit his throat. Much too trusting for a survivor.

He tries to sleep but the ghosts are still lurking. Has to get up instead and digs through his bags. There’s a container of dried-out fruit in here, a secret stash the Vuvalini forgot about when they gave him the bike. He has one piece a day. Something sweet to chase away the grit of sand.

It’s buried under clothes, bullets, other food, and when he tugs, it’s caught. Stupid thing won’t come loose until he yanks and he and the fruit go tumbling back into the sand. He curses into the night.

“Eames?” a voice calls. Another ghost? No, just Arthur, sitting up now, a dark shape against the sky.

He grunts in answer. He tries to stand but the brace creaks, collapses. Arthur’s by his side in seconds.

“Easy,” he says when Max jerks away from his hands. “Not gonna try anything.”

They get him to his feet. It’s good to have something to lean on for once. Arthur lets him drop onto the blankets, then hovers awkwardly.

“You going to be okay?” he asks.

Max nods. Then he sees Arthur’s hands, trembling by his sides. “Cold?”

Arthur laughs. “Yeah. Don’t have blankets like you.”

 _No one left behind_ , Furiosa murmurs and he pauses. Those damn women, turning him into a bleeding heart.

“Get in here,” he says, not quite as gruff as he’d like.

Arthur slides in. He lets Max move the blankets until they’re wrapped around them both like a cocoon.

“Better?”

Arthur nods. “Yeah, I’m good.” His fingers curl over the edge of the blankets. “These are nice. Soft.”

Max touches them too. They were the Vuvalini’s, Furiosa’s, soft and worn, patterns faded. A little piece of them he can carry with him.

Arthur nods like he’s replied. In the faint light that creeps around the edges of the tarp, his face is eerie. “You ever wonder what it was like before?”

He snorts. No point wondering about what you can’t have. Arthur ignores his noise.

“I had a book,” he says, voice quiet. “The raiders took it. It was about before. You know, there used to be cities that stretched for miles. They had enough food and water for everyone.”

Max watches him out the corner of his eye. Arthur sounds sad, like he wants the world to go back to that. Should he tell him about the Citadel, the new green place? No, not yet. Don’t trust him yet.

Arthur shifts, getting comfortable, finally settling on his side, pressed up against Max. Warm. Alive. The closeness is – nice. More than nice; it’s doing things to him. Didn’t touch the women, couldn’t, knowing where they’d come from, what’d been done to them. But Arthur, he’s something else.

Arthur doesn’t seem to notice. “Thank you,” he says, blinking at Max in the dark.

“S’fine.”

“I mean it.” He wriggles, settles again, closer still. Max’s hip presses against his stomach. “I’d be starving to death if you hadn’t come along.”

Max claps a heavy hand over his mouth. “Said it’s fine.”

Arthur’s lips move against his palm, tongue sliding slick over skin. His breath hitches; his hand jerks away.

“Sorry,” Arthur’s saying. He reaches out, gets a hand around Max’s, wipes at the smears of saliva. Wasted water. “Just – I know what it’s like out here. Nothing comes easy. Most people would’ve kept driving.”

Max opens his mouth, but Arthur’s face stops the words. Eyes wide, pupils big and dark, vast, like the desert at night. Mouth open, lips cracked around the edges but slick, tempting in the centre. Light glinting along his cheek, curve of his eye; delicate, fragile.

Arthur blinks once, twice, eyes knowing. “See something you like?” He’s still holding Max’s hand.

“No.”

Liar. He hasn’t been this close to anyone in a long time and his pants are growing tight. Loneliness does that sometimes, confuses the body. The air between them is as hot as the sand.

“Eames,” he says, tone teasing. _Teasing_. Like Max doesn’t have three knives on his person and two guns buried in the blankets. “Come on, then. Come here.”

 _Take a chance_ , the wives would say; he did once, he can do it again. So when Arthur’s hand slides around his chin, turns it with strong fingers and leans it, he gives in.

Didn’t think he’d ever kiss anyone again. But it’s familiar, easy. Then Arthur’s hand curls into his hair, angles him, and it’s better, frantic, tongues and teeth clashing. A moan rumbles out of him. Arthur grins against his mouth.

“Knew it,” he says. The look on his face is victorious, but his eyes are gentle.

Max doesn’t like gentle, doesn’t know how to be it. Maybe did once, long time ago when the world wasn’t hot and painful and broken, but not anymore. So instead he pushes and pulls until Arthur’s where he wants him. And Arthur goes, allows Max to put him on his back and spreads his legs like he _trusts_ him. The _fool_ ; the bloody bleeding fool.

Clothes come off fast. He gets two fingers in his mouth then down between Arthur’s legs, and oh, he opens so prettily. Doesn’t even complain when Max pulls them out and pushes himself in too fast, too hard. Just tilts his head back against the blankets, mouth open and wet, writhing and whining at the push-pull of Max’s hips.

“Yeah,” he groans against Max’s cheek. “Like that. Yeah, come on, Eames.”

No, that’s not right, dead man’s name is bad luck. “Max,” he says against Arthur’s throat. “My name is Max.”

Arthur’s hand curls around the back of his head. “ _Max_ ,” he repeats, slowly, like he’s trying it out. Then: “Still think Eames suits you better.”

“No.” He rubs his nose along Arthur’s collarbone, licks a line to his chin. Arthur’s hand clenches against his head. “Max.”

He bites down on the hinge of Arthur’s jaw. His mouth falls open; a desperate sound escapes. His hips hitch up as Max drives down. No space between them now, just hot air, sweat slick on their skin; pleasure, pressure, surrounding him, inside him; Arthur’s hands on him like an anchor, a brand, his voice chanting “Max, Max, _Max_ ,” as he spills between them, and Max rears up and tumbles over the cliff after him.

He rolls off slowly, lays down with his arms behind his head. He’s drifting but it feels right. Cold air slips along his skin; next to him, Arthur shivers and curls in close. He pulls a blanket over his shoulders, another up to Max’s waist.

“Where were you going?” he asks.

Max shrugs. Wasn’t a destination in mind. No green place to search for any more, and the Citadel is miles and miles back now, lost to the heat haze. He just wants somewhere to rest his head and maybe to keep the ghosts quiet for a while.

“I heard there was a place,” Arthur says, softly like a secret. “Somewhere safe. With food and water. You know anything about that?”

So the rumours are spreading, blown like dust across the waste. “Might,” he tells him.

Arthur props himself up on an elbow, leaning over him with wide eyes. “Yeah?”

He nods cautiously. Knowledge has as much power as names. This sort of thing could be worth a lot. But there’s nothing Arthur has that he wants, nothing he hasn’t already given anyway.

“Three days ride that way,” he says, pointing back to the way he came.

Arthur’s breath flutters along his shoulder. “What’s it like?”

Max shrugs, feels the brush of Arthur’s mouth against skin. “Tall. Green.”

“And the people?”

Dangerous, kind, honest, tough. “Trustworthy,” he says. “Tell ‘em I sent you.”

Arthur gives him a look, like he’s weighing the words. He stares back blankly. Can’t have Arthur figuring it out, the other things they are. Friends. Family.

Eventually the look goes away. “You don’t want to go?” Arthur asks.

Oh, he wants. Wants to restock, refuel, wants to check on Furiosa and the wives; wants to stand under running water and scrub the dirt from his skin until its pink and raw; wants to sleep without sand against his skin and ghosts in his dreams.

But the past is the past. The only way is forward. “Been already,” he tells him, and turns his head away.

Arthur makes a strange noise. “Eames,” he says; “ _Max_.”

He lays his hand on Max’s stomach, over the hollow of his belly. A soft spot, prime for gutting, more intimate than the fucking. He doesn’t move, just lays still and tense. The words stick in his throat.

Arthur sighs, but he keeps his hand there. “So, what? You gonna make me walk there?”

Max looks back at him. Their faces are close, too close. If he tilted his head just so, he could – no. He drags his eyes up from Arthur’s lips, flinches at his knowing gaze.

“The least you could do,” Arthur says, “Is give me a ride.”

He frowns. “Saved y’ life already.” The little shit.

“So save it again.” Arthur lifts up and drapes himself across Max. It feels – good. “Or do I need to convince you?”

Max expects his hand to snake down between them again. But no – Arthur just drops his head, presses their mouths together. Slow and gentle, just a touch of lips. When he pulls back his eyes are bright.

“Come with me,” he whispers against his mouth. “Please.”

Max stares up at him. At those dark eyes. That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it – sun and sand and ghosts, or Arthur, the Citadel, Furiosa and the wives.

He chose life once before. Maybe he can do it again

“Okay,” he says, and leans up to meet Arthur halfway.

-

The Citadel is the same, two peaks against the horizon growing larger with every mile beneath the wheels. Would be easy to turn away, vanish into the sand. Arthur’s arms hold him on course.

“That it?” he yells over the engine.

Couldn’t be anything else. Nothing else out here quite like the Citadel. Might well be the only place in the desert not rotting from the inside out.

A howling chases them across the sand. Arthur’s head twists, searching. “We’ve got company,” he says, mouth to Max’s ear.

He turns. Two cars roaring towards them, pale faces leaning out to scream at them: warboys. Or maybe they’re not called that any more. Doubtful. Furiosa wouldn’t want to keep anything Immortan Joe gave them.

They pull up alongside, still yelling. But it changes when they see the bike, who’s on it. Warning cries become welcomes.

“What are they saying?” Arthur says.

Max ducks his head, like it’ll drown out the chants: bloodbag, bloodbag, _bloodbag_. Of all the names, it’s the one he hates most.

Gates loom, and on them a figure with tufts of dark hair, a loaded gun. The warboys call up; Toast waves back. They pass through.

This is familiar. No white faces anymore, but still warboys scurrying between vehicles, the Wretched staring in silent amazement. Joe’s mark up on the cliff face, staring down like the man himself is still up there watching.

Off the bike and into the sand. The brace creaks dangerously. Gotta get that fixed up and soon. Arthur lets him lean his weight against him.

“You sure we’re welcome?” he says.

Max looks up. The Wretched are creeping closer. Then bursting through their ranks, red hair dancing in the wind: Capable, trudging across the sand, raising an arm in greeting. When she reaches for him, puts her hand on his neck and her forehead to his like Furiosa did with the Vuvalini.

“Glad you came back,” she murmurs.

Next to him, Arthur is tense, wary. Good boy. Capable steps back to look at him.

“Who’s this?”

“Found him in the desert,” Max says. He nudges Arthur forward.

Capable laughs. “Just like we found you.” She puts out a hand. “I’m Capable. Welcome to the Citadel.”

Arthur’s gaze flicks between them. “Arthur,” he says. But he keeps his hands by his sides, close to the gun at his hip.

Capable’s eyes drag over him. She nods, satisfied, turns to look at Max. “You gonna stay this time?”

He shrugs, but Arthur is nodding too. “Yeah.” He elbows him sharply. “We are.”

Capable smiles. She looks – happy. Or maybe just less sad than when he left. No longer mourning that warboy then. “Good.” She glances up at the tower. “Furiosa will want to see you.”

Of course she does. Fearless leader and all that. He snorts.

Capable rolls her eyes, already turning away. “Welcome home,” she calls over her shoulder.

Arthur makes a strange noise. “Home,” he says. His voice is quiet, hopeful.

Max tries it too: _home_. Used to taste like ash in his mouth, gritty like sand between his teeth, but not anymore. Now it’s sweet like the fruit, sweet like Arthur. When did that happen?

“Eames?” Arthur is saying. “Max?”

He hums a reply.

“You okay?”

Is he? The Citadel chased out the madness before but the desert gave it back. He doesn’t fit in this new world they’re building. No place for a feral here.

“ _Max_.” Arthur’s hand curls around his neck. Fingers touch the brand. “You with me?”

He hums again. “’M here.”

“You want to go inside?”

He’s not sure if he can. Isolate, psychotic, keep muzzled; the tattoo says it all. But the way Arthur’s looking at him, the way the wives all look at him. Like maybe he’s more. Like maybe there’s hope.

Hope is a mistake. Or – it was.

“Gonna need some help,” he says. Points to his leg.

Arthur nods. “I think we can manage that.”

Max leans back into his hand and Arthur grins at him. His teeth are blinding in the sunlight. He doesn’t let go.


End file.
